


Sow & Reap

by odoridango



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Implied AFAB Shiro, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Nonbinary Keith, Nonbinary Shiro, Pre-Relationship, Rituals, Sappy Handholding, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:21:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27054826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odoridango/pseuds/odoridango
Summary: Shiro can't remember a single thing from before spring, but it seems like Hades might have the answers.A Hades & Persephone based Greek myth AU.
Relationships: Keith & Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	Sow & Reap

**Author's Note:**

> some extra warnings: there is a character death, but not of any protags. also mentions of nongraphic violence.
> 
> notes on gender stuff: Shiro is implied afab; both Shiro and Keith are genderqueer and are addressed using they/them pronouns throughout the entire fic.

Traversing an unsung pilgrimage path under the barest remnant of moonlight, barefoot steps whispering over icy pitfalls and frost-limned stone, Kore nearly misses the stranger and the weak halo of their lantern. Distorted and exaggerated, the dark shape of their figure is cast onto worn shrine walls, seeping into the cracks between hewn stone blocks. The dim cloud of the stranger’s light flickers as they move slowly between the towering silhouettes of weathered stone heroa. In the dark of a winter’s night with everything muffled in a heavy layer of snow, the comforting flame stands out all the more, an irresistible beacon that piques Kore’s curiosity and bids them to come closer on quiet, fleet feet, kneeling in the snow behind a low wall.

All at once, red. The stranger is clothed in startling color, a saturated crimson that embraces and obscures the form of their body, stark against the snow and bright against the deep night’s muted shades. The drape of the clothing is foreign, subtle golden embroidery glinting against the fine fabric. Despite their dress, the faint glow of lantern light paints the stranger into a late night petitioner of quotidian wants and needs, a plainclothes everyman desperate for some small speck of comfort, a haunted and grieving widow plagued by sorrow. In truth the stranger is none of those things, in truth they crouch in the snow like they’re young, aimless, and huddling for warmth in the safe shadows of the shrines built for the hero cults, peering closely at stone-carven reliefs, brushing away built-up snow and frost with careful, tentative fingers. They meander between heroön with no real destination, silent and sweeping in their hooded cloak. The fabric catches the comfort and isolation of fire and moonlight both, revealing the rich, dark purple hue, lined with black fur. Purple and black are colors forbidden to those who have not sworn themselves to Persephone’s name, a taboo that makes the thick, reflective material mesmerizing to watch in the light, shimmering. The stranger’s gaze is thoughtful as they dawdle here and there, measuring and heavy with melancholy.

The power deep in Kore’s marrow hums, resonating. The stranger is no human; they bear the inexplicable signature of superhuman power, a presence that all gods possess. Embedded in the core of that presence is a glimmer, a glint, not unlike seeds burgeoning in damp, fertile soil, the musty smells of peat and moss, the euphoria and headiness of wine and the rich flavor of all good things from the earth, a twin to the same power that drifts unknown in Kore, a subterranean current. Kore presses their lips together against the sensation, and their wooden right arm – aged branches and roots weaving into a strong forearm, a broad palm, and sturdy fingers – digs into the frozen ground, clenching around a handful of frigid snow, tendrils winding ever tighter together. Like recognizes like, but the stranger remains unknown to Kore so long as Kore remains unknown to themself. As they are now, Kore cannot identify them.

They study the stranger again, tracing the gleaming line of black bull’s horns, harsh and intimidating against the soft thickness of wavy black hair pulled back in a half-tail, brushing against shoulders. An old scar creeps up the curve of their cheek. Unmoving, the stranger is as a statue, flinty-eyed and solemn, seemingly bent on excavating meaning from the cults of dead men. That unknown power beats against Kore’s ribcage, rattling. Kore could greet them, ask them their name, their destination, their desire. Kore’s lips part, premature and apprehensive, and they exhale a thin stream of white in hesitation, wondering what to say. Foot shuffling forward a half-step, they think of introducing themself. But the stranger turns away to continue their journey, stately as they proceed through the forest of shrines, taking the warmth of their lantern with them.

Kore watches them leave, purple, black, and crimson trailing. They imagine pursuing the stranger, calling after them, joining them on their path, getting to know them. But in the end, Kore retreats back to their unmarked path, continuing their pilgrimage to the next temple marked in Persephone’s name. Surely, not many gods bear that distinctive vegetal, flourishing energy. Like will recognize like, and there are places that Kore must also go.

Kore is in the human world because they are impatient and full of yearning, bursting to bloom. Since spring their mind has been far from them. They sink into odd daydreams, fugues where they blink once, twice, and lose time. When their head hurts, they sit under the shade of a tree, only to wake and find themselves at the edge of their lands, right on the border, eyes trailing over the horizon like they’re searching for someone. It’s as if their immortal existence began just those few months before – they recognize faces, relationships, and places, but there is no sense of time attached to them, no memory or sentiment linked to the knowledge. They cannot remember what happened to make them this way. There are few visitors to ask advice of, no one close by to turn to. Their life is their dwelling, huddled in a small corner of the meadow, visible at a distance for miles. Under clear sky, the land lies vast and lonely.

They are constantly discomfited by the power that roils under their skin, unfulfilled even when seasons turn beneath their hands. Limbs spasm, joints ache, wood and flesh burn where they meet. They often rest in the fields because they’ve fallen there, not because they want to. On one of her irregular check-ins, Demeter turned to them with a stern look, sun flashing off her neat gray hair, and told them that it was a sign of their strength; Kore, you are simply too full of life, Kore, that is just the depth of your power, Kore, you must guard yourself well. But Kore does not believe Demeter, because the power that runs deep and forceful enough to try and shake them apart some days is not a treasure to be hoarded or contained. It calls to be let out, to be harnessed, and if anything were to be guarded it would be the place where that power would be recognized.

Yet, Kore stands lonely in their meadow. Their title goes unsung, is not writ into the skies or the earth, has not been sunk root-deep to seep through subsoil down to the broken fragments where all rotten things rest and leech into life again. There is some part of them that is so immense and bulging that it hurts to keep it in their skin.

Gods are not mortals, gods emerge in a completeness unto themselves, fully grown, fully acknowledged, prompted by the perfect instance, a singular event. In this way, Kore knows they are called thus not because of the delicacy of verdant shoots or half-open buds, but because they are still not mature. Just a personification, just a minor vegetation deity nowhere near the esteem and power of their matron, who commands the growth of cereals and the sacred law. Kore, they are called, the maiden, and it is not strictly untrue or unwanted, because that is part of who they are and there is no shame in growing. But the other gods, the Olympians, seem to take the title to heart. There is no reason to think that leaving Kore alone and isolating them would spare them from anything, for all on Olympus know that the human world has been in turmoil for several seasons. Ignorance does not innocence make, and wisdom is not tied to title or age. Kore does not intend to beg their secrets from gods absent in both body and mind, who do not think of them and clearly do not consider them as someone equal in their pantheon. They do not need to.

Humans keep records where gods do not. They are the keepers of the canon and the lack of thereof. And in the human world, Kore is worshipped in all their guises, symbol of youth, bringer of spring, deity of vegetation, depicted in all manner of ways. And there, they learn that they are already transformed, power actualized. Dreaded Persephone, ruler of the underworld, Hades’ counterpart. They are feared. They are powerful. Worshippers do not speak their name as they do not speak Hades’, for fear that death will follow them where they walk, but Kore has seen the inscriptions and the records and knows, feels each syllable twang in their chest like the snapped strings on a pandoura. They do not recognize Persephone, not yet, but Persephone feels right in the way so many things lately have not. Kore sees their own priestesses, clad in the purple and black yet forbidden to them, they see their own temples, grand and imposing. Standing in front of the places that enshrine them and house them in the human world, that wild energy calms if only for a moment, purring beneath their skin, waiting for the day it can burst out.

The humans have many stories about how Kore becomes Persephone. Hades marries them, Hades acknowledges their chthonic power and brings them to the Underworld to be a powerful judge and administrator, Hecate travels with them to the crossroads for sacred plants whereby Kore takes sustenance from the Underworld and is trapped there, Kore steps into their own power and aspect as a herald of necessary change. Kore, of course, favors the last interpretation most, but is nevertheless struck by depictions of Persephone. As Kore, they are bursting with vigor and coy in turns, but most of all, young, a svelte, trim portrayal of archetypal beauty and innocence that would never hold up to the reality or complexity of themself or any other youths that they’ve encountered. It is odd how separated the humans’ perceptions are from Kore themself – if the humans are to be believed, Kore spends all their days playing with nymphs, welcoming spring, and nursing the new sprouts that emerge in morning dew, completely oblivious to a single ounce of the waiting, the trembling, the anticipation that has thrummed through their bones every day since that fateful hazy spring, on the cusp of something. Even if the humans had gotten it right, Kore has no way of knowing, no sense of the self they’d been before spring. All else has gone dormant, and thinking on their image with distant distaste, they think that is perhaps a good thing. As Persephone however, they are straight-backed and commanding, laying judgment with compassionate ruthlessness. Robes are worn like armor, draped across broad shoulders and a powerful frame conveying firm assurance and aggressive competence, suffering no questioning or hesitation. They are rooted in stone and soil, grounded as the earth, fair, tempering fearsome strength with deliberate steadiness. Their head held high, Persephone is confident and sure in their domain. It sounds like someone Kore would want to be, someone they apparently already are, both the before and after.

Walking through villages going temple to temple, Kore watches the humans go about their days, live their lives, purposeful and always thinking of the next thing. And as word on Olympus says, those lives are harsh. The temples are packed with a palpable sense of fear and helplessness, full of people begging for guidance, for a bit of luck, for survival. In whispers, Kore hears of failed crops, destroyed food stores, raids, war, disease. All the same, Kore sees a morbid – and perhaps to some, unfitting – challenge and triumph in the winter, the way it grinds and hones survival, the resourcefulness and harshness it forces from all people. There is resilience in the fight against nature. There is a strength there. And when Kore sees the humans struggle, they do not pity the humans, who fight so vivaciously and willingly, they pity the gods, who so think themselves above the human spirit. The gods, who are meant to be helping, who Kore has not seen in Olympus and does not see on their pilgrimage path. Do gods not want like the humans, lust like the humans, fool themselves like them, toil like them, envy and hate and anger like them? Hera’s spiteful ventures, Zeus’ mercilessly indulgent ways, Ares’ destructive desires. Gods are perhaps the most human of all. But a human’s prerogative is to change, and the gods seem incapable of that. In that, Kore thinks gods and godhood, their lands and dwelling, the whole of Mount Olympus, are so much weaker than humankind. By virtue of their being, the gods will always be behind, will always become ever and more obsolete. It is the humans that create and reconstruct the canon. Gods emerge in completeness unto themselves; they are unchanging and static. 

Kore, however, does change, if only a little. In winter, most of their hair blanches white. Only the tip of their customary braid remains the usual black. Their wooden arm changes too, gilding itself in the metallic luster of charred wood, a luminous charcoal gray, carrying the fragrance of deep, ancient forests and warm hearths. They blend into frostbitten landscapes like a snowshoe hare would, given away only by movement and the spot of black in their winter guise. Upon their return to Olympus, they find the meadow that makes up their lands still barren, covered in a pristine layer of snow, dotted by the skeleton figures of trees, none of them evergreen. It is an endless plain of white that stretches to meet the sky, merging into overcast gray. Only Kore’s own footsteps mar the surface. They know from the whispered complaints of nymphs and satyrs that the weather this year has been unusual, and typically there is no winter at all, much less so much snow. The shadow of the season is long but novel.

Kore prefers this to the springtime, when the meadow is idyllic with lush, dense grasses, and healthy, fragrant flower fields. Promising buds of harvest grow where the their land meets Demeter’s, vital sheaves of wheat and the perfect, rounded grains of millet and sorghum. Blue sky, gentle sun, the swaying heads of sunflowers, and it is a picturesque hellscape of the utmost familiarity, filled by a maddening drone not unlike that of cicadas in the summer, an endless halcyon dream promising lethargy, stagnancy. Spring is when Kore forgot, when they became dormant. When they woke, they were cradled in the grasses, blooming poppies waving overhead in warning. The spring meadow distilled is the fear that Kore, untested and incomplete, will always be. Only with the passage of time do the things that bud, grow. The unnerving perfection in their lands does not reflect their thoughts or feelings, the cheerful smothering of things overgrown, choking out the layers beneath, depriving, concealing rot.

And that is intolerable. Kore cannot accept it. They fear it, like they fear nothing else. They would rather have the honest, revealing starkness of winter. Kore, the gods call them, covering their eyes and willing them not to see who they could become. Kore, the gods say, and they want to shatter the title on the floor. It is not them. It is not who they mean to be. The Olympians do not know him, nor do they care to. They do not approach Hades either, nor Hecate. It is unspoken that the Olympians do not mingle much with the chthonic deities, still of their pantheon, but separate, shunned. Too close to mortality, to the human cycle of life, too threatening to that sanctified superhumanity, too unnerving. And so the Olympians do not approach Kore, who should be Persephone, they behave as if Kore will forever be that not-innocent, instead of a god growing.

The lone constant in all this is Hecate, guardian of the crossroads, of borders and gateways and all the spaces in between. A friend, they think, and a sign. Of journeys, of paths yet to come. In her first spring visit, her casual speech and friendly manner had made it clear that she knew them, as the they who was before Kore, as the they who will be after Kore. Arriving in a cloud of fluttering cloth, she seems ephemeral and barely there until she takes a seat at the kitchen table, waiting for Kore to do as hospitality bids and serve her refreshments. She likes to make her visits a surprise, coming and going at her whim, and always begins their conversations by asking how they are, tucking silver moonbright hair behind a pointed ear, smile kind, bright blue eyes lively and knowing. She brings them rare plants and pressings from her daily wanderings and carries the constant smell of ozone, the sure touch of magics and witchcraft. She too, feels of that unknown power, the potential of blooming things, the nourishing heat of compost, the potent snap of new possibilities and olive trees so burdened with fruit they bow towards the earth. On her third visit, Hecate had called them by name.

“Persephone,” she’d said, soft and warm.

The name had resounded like the clap of a drum. “Who’s that?” they asked.

“That’s you,” she said, with a bittersweet, fond smile. “A terrible thing, to not know one’s history.” Her gaze had lowered to the cup in her hands, where she’d been swirling her tea absent-mindedly, soothing herself with the repetitive motion.

The only logical thing to do was ask where the title had come from and what it meant, but Hecate was reticent, insistent that Kore seek the answer for themself. “Telling you does not mean you will believe or become,” she’d told them, hands gentle on their shoulders, shaking her brilliant head. “The events will take their own course.”

Such had Hecate been the cause of Kore’s pilgrimage to Persephone. After returning, Kore does not speak to Hecate right away, instead taking advantage of their blank, empty days to ponder their many questions, consider their true wants and needs, and examine the situation from every angle they can think of. They are more than aware that ample reason exists to doubt Hecate’s intentions and motives, especially since they’re an amnesiac, yet, they find that they do not. Her visits had been in good faith, greatly needed afternoons of companionship and good conversation requiring nothing more than Kore’s willing ear and steady repartee, easily given. She could have influenced Kore’s thoughts to benefit herself by feeding them select information and certain versions of events; instead she’d encouraged them to seek information and form an assessment for themself. As they learn Persephone, seek Persephone, and come to realize that Persephone could yield the years, decades, perhaps centuries that have been purged from their mind, Kore understands that they are at a crossroads. Remember everything that brought and bound them to this present and reclaim Persephone, or leave things as they are and remain, petrified, in the meadow. Future and past have, bafflingly, converged, but the simple truth is that one day, all things must cease, and so too, Kore must cease. And Hecate, goddess of the in-between, would understand better than any other the nature of Kore’s path. She is a guide, a guardian, not an orchestrator.

With every visit where words go unsaid, Hecate shines brighter in Kore’s wretched land of monotony, alight with possibility. She comes in the night with a torch in her hand, she comes with the sound of metal clinking, the jingling of unseen keys, a sign, a sign. In the night Kore hears the howling of a dog, faithful Hecuba, lost of her kingdoms, her sons and daughters. This is the in-between, their stagnant lands, their stinking meadow, the inevitable turning of seasons warped and weakening. They are already there, whether the other gods know it or not, teetering on the edge of something.

“You say I am Persephone. What of Hades? The humans make much of us as partners.”

When Kore finally asks Hecate this, her eyes become ice, chips of frigid blue, lit within by her witchfire. The Underworld is of no new territory, for to Hecate all places are known, all boundaries are erased. She paces the edges of Tartarus, hears the murmurs of the Titans imprisoned there, accompanies clever Hermes Psychopomps on her journeys, her favors to belligerent Thanatos, one thief to another. In the human world, all know that Hades is Persephone’s counterpart in Underworld rule, regardless of how they came by that position, and Hecate must also know this. But here in Olympus, Kore is alone. The humans are the ones who hold the record of time, for they feel it so acutely, why then, do the gods delude themselves, make an alternate history of it as if it could be avoided? Kore has not yet returned to Persephone, but does partnership mean so little to Hades that he would not even show his face?

“Hades is changed," Hecate says, eyes shadowed by the glowing markings high on her cheeks. The curl of her lip and snarl of her mouth suggest that this is no good thing. “We meet little these days, so I know not of how he fares. But there is no reason you should not meet.” Her eyes shine brighter, sparking, the saturated pink pits of her eyes penetrating and shrewd. “As the humans say, the Underworld is your domain too, Persephone.”

Kore is given directions, a crudely drawn map for reference. To Aornum, on the banks of the Acheron, the mighty river of sorrow that sweeps into Hades and splits into streams of sorrow and fire. Winter’s long reach extends to Epirus too, but focused on the strain of the walk and the natural beauty surrounding them on all sides, Kore hardly notices the snap of cold against windblown cheeks, boots treading an easy path through snow. Animal calls echo through the slight canyons and bare trees, birds circle serenely overhead, and foxes dart through the low brush. A constant companion, the river meanders through all types of terrain, adventurous. Kore follows rushing waters through rocky cliffs with sheer, jagged surfaces and threatening faces, dotted with scraggly bushes and hardy wildflowers. They trace a sharp bend into shallow lowlands and small, sloping shores, the shallow stream patient and unhurried, burbling along until a series of sharp inclines stirs the waters into foaming rapids, swift and merciless. A deceptively even layer of snow hides the sharp treachery of cracks, holes, and pits, but makes the jewel-bright greens and blues of the water seem all the more pleasing, saturated and crisp, fresh and clear. Picking their way over boulders, resting on flat-topped rocks and small, snow-laden shores, Kore forges through the densely wooded banks, the bare arms of trees stretching up to the sky, beseeching.

Eventually, Kore and the river wander into a series of picturesque, rolling hills, neatly crossed by the even lines of grapevine trellises, distinct even as snow continues to fall. The ground is well-trod here, pockmarked with layers of footprints between rows of dormant plants, the bases of each vine mounded to tide over the odd winter. The vineyards would be beautiful in summer, a careful vista of green, pruned and heavy with plump fruit, ripe for picking. But they are not here for wine, they are here for Hades, for the place marked out in red on Hecate’s map. They are close, and their steps continue hugging the river as they follow the fences of the vineyards down into the valley, abandoning the water to traverse the next hill into a new section of plantings, where they spot a small, stone cabin. The dwelling is oddly charming with stones of all colors and uneven size used to construct its walls, an unusually steep single roof, and extremely solid stained wooden shutter sealing a large arch window. Even if the cabin had not been Kore’s destination, they might have approached it anyway out of sheer curiosity. A small, detached building sits behind it, constructed in the same style. An outhouse perhaps, or a dwelling for steam baths. 

Nervously, Kore swipes sweat-soaked strands of hair out of their face and flips their frazzled braid over their shoulder, straightening their clothes as best they can. The door is a plain piece of solid wood, just as ridiculously sturdy as the window shutters, and Kore announces themself with a series of precise raps in the center.

“Greetings,” they say as loudly as they dare, clearing their throat, “I come directed by Hecate, seeking knowledge of Hades and his whereabouts.”

Minutes pass with no response. Spirits sinking, Kore goes to knock again, pausing when they hear scraping noises behind them. A person is trudging up the path to the cabin, hauling a disproportionately large sledge of chopped firewood through the snowdrifts. The logs are lashed in place with rope, an axe resting on the top, further proof of the person’s strength. Kore waves to catch their attention, hope renewed.

“Greetings,” they offer as they approach, only to have all other words evaporate as they come closer, trapped in the hum that shudders up their spine and into their chest. The sharp of bull’s horns gleams amidst a mass of unbound black hair, and the stranger from the heroa gives Kore a wary look from under strong eyebrows. Wrapped in a bulky, quilted coat the color of clay and tucked under loops of indigo-dyed wool scarf, they are considerably less eyecatching than they were on that moonlit night, but the strength of their presence is as striking as ever, frost and winter lichen, the warmth between layers of decaying leaves littering the forest floor, the sweet drunk-punch fermentation of fruit and vegetables where they’re buried in jars and barrels under the earth. The stranger’s brow crinkles, mouth stiffening, and while Kore doesn’t know how their own presence feels, they hope it’s something comforting and friendly, something that will make the stranger stay. Their fingers tingle as power cycles restlessly in their body, prowling, expectant.

“Hi,” the stranger says shortly, studying them like they did the shrines, stare direct and intent. “Do I know you?”

Awkward and abashed, Kore shakes their head. “I saw you once in the human world visiting heroa,” they admit, pretending to ignore the way the stranger goes rigid and deepens the furrow in their brow. “But I do not know you. Hecate sent me here.” They unfold their map and offer it as proof.

Eyes rounding in mute surprise, the stranger takes the map with a ginger hand, giving Kore another quick, sweeping glance before scanning the ink-drawn lines and instructions carefully. “Hecate, you said,” they repeat slowly, mouth softening into a contemplative frown. Their gaze drifts up, meeting Kore’s. “What do you want?”

“I want to speak with Hades about the stories humans tell,” Kore says, for the stranger seems to favor bluntness, and Hecate would not direct them to someone recklessly.

The stranger frowns harder. “The humans only tell so many stories about Hades,” they say, raising an eyebrow and handing the map back. “You must be Kore. Or Persephone.” They begin to pull their sledge again, walking up to the cabin, glancing back at Kore with an expectant tilt of their head.

“Yes,” Kore affirms slowly, following with uncertain steps. The recognition is jarring; they hadn’t expected to be easily identified or receive any real acknowledgement of their present self, much less be called both their titles, even though they’d assumed Persephone was common knowledge among the gods. “So you must understand why I would speak with Hades.”

The stranger huffs humorlessly, rounding the side of the cabin toward a wide wood shed that had been hidden from view. “I do,” they say, “But I’ve got wood to unload and a cabin to warm up. Let me start up the hearth and then we’ll talk.”

Kore helps stack wood almost to the top of the shed and props the sledge upright against one of the walls. It’s with two armfuls of wood that they enter the cabin, and though the stranger is already directing them to take off their boots and set the wood down in a large rack, Kore is too stunned by the cabin’s interior to acknowledge them properly. They’d expected a stone floor with a composition not unlike that of the walls, but instead, there are colorful textiles covering almost every inch of spare floor, embroidered with dizzyingly detailed patterns and motifs. There are bold, interlocking geometric shapes, flowers and vines delicately spilling down in intricate scrollwork, and iterative, reflective patterns spiraling out from the centers to adorn every inch of fabric. Under Kore’s socked feet, the textiles are all different textures, some of them plush, some of them dense and firm, all providing a shield against the cold of winter-chilled stone. Where there is no textile, wood takes its place in beautiful, marbled planks of rich browns and light tan, the faint scent of olive twining with the lingering scent of smoke. Intrigued and curious, Kore can’t stop themself from examining other corners of the cabin as they pile the wood into the rack, right next to the central hearth. They’re probably not even managing to be discreet.

The cabin is small, but for one person, it’s luxury enough. The interior walls are stuccoed, application lines still visible, but fine grained and unlikely to scrape too harshly against skin. With the slant of the roof, the lower end of the ceiling only clears Kore’s head by several meters, the opposite wall towering overhead in comparison. The arch window set in its face seems even larger than it did from the outside, and when open, would offer all the natural light one could ever want, not to mention a fantastic view of the vineyards and the single, incoming path from the river.

Toward the far end of the cabin is a rectangular area entirely finished with that gorgeous marbled wood, reserved as a storage area for food and wares. Large earthenware urns sit to one side, likely containing grains, and the shelves are packed with an assortment of vessels, tableware, pans and pots, as well as odd miniature boxes. Kore can easily identify some vessels for mixing and storing water, but few of the other pottery pieces are of recognizable make, boasting all different sizes, shapes, and glazes, some of obvious foreign origin, glinting with shockingly saturated blues or greens. They can only guess what the other vessels contain, perhaps oils, vinegar, or dried herbs. Hiding among clay is the shine of metal, in the form of small, intricately decorated brass pots. An entire corner is devoted to various amphora, more odd vessels, and a truly incredible number of cups, for wine if the kylixes are any indication, just as varied in form as the vessels, some even carved from semiprecious stone. Wooden storage chests, some plain like the door and window shutters, others lacquered black or painted, line the walls by the central hearth. Unusual blades hang sheathed on all four walls, dangling from leather straps, alternatively decorative and threatening. The stranger is clearly well traveled and well defended.

“Your home is lovely,” Kore says, sweeping their gaze over the welcoming heft of the stuffed pallet rolled out opposite the hearth, right underneath the arch window, blankets neatly folded on top. The stranger crouches by Kore’s feet, stoking the hearth fire to light. Made of the same stone mix comprising the cabin’s exterior, the hearth bulges out of the wall in a small half-dome to better surround the fire in its belly. The rectangular clear space before it is filled with ash, bordered by more planks of wood, a surface for the stranger to rest cooking utensils and tableware, as they do now. A pot of liquid is carefully hoisted in place over the fire, where a metal stand awaits.

“Thank you,” the stranger says, sighing and flinging off their outer layers unceremoniously. They wear a plainer version of the unusual robes Kore had seen them in at the heroa, and fire once again glints off the lethal edge of their horns, warming the natural orange tint of the clay amphora whose contents the stranger had emptied into the pot, a second one with a black stripe set next to it.

“You are not Hades, are you?” Kore asks with mounting suspicion.

The stranger laughs. It’s a dry chuckle, tired but not mocking, a reaction to an inside joke. “Call me Keith,” they say, the barest hint of a smile still clinging to their mouth. Undignified, they roll towards the pallet to snag a large reed basket, groaning at the stretch. “Ugh. It’s gonna warm up in here soon, you can toss your outer robes in here if you want.” They stuff their own outerwear into the basket, revealing an oddly-shaped knife strapped to the small of their back.

“Keith,” Kore repeats, frowning as they sit and shed their winter gear. They give a pointed glance to Keith’s horns, the amphora resting on the wood, the evidence of travel all around them. “Is that really what I should be calling you? You, a deity of wine and liberation, living in the middle of a vineyard?”

Keith leans back on their arms, scowling. “I only moved here a while ago,” they grouse. “Hecate sure didn’t send you here for nothing.” They stare at the fire for some seconds before looking back to Kore, sympathetic but unflinching. “I might have been Dionysus first, but Keith is more accurate now, in the way that both Kore and Persephone are inaccurate.”

The unexpected frankness stings, hits against Kore’s ribs with a fresh lash of vibrating echoes, ringing true. Black-burned wooden fingers grind against each other as they clench into a fist, but do not break. In their nose is the smell of burning. Another unknown but necessary thing to accept. The untitled deity smiles bittersweetly at Keith, adjusting. “In that case,” they say, “Call me Shiro.”

Keith nods and extends a conciliatory hand. “Good to meet you, Shiro. Despite the circumstances.” Their hand is smaller than Shiro’s but their grip is firm, warm, and dry.

“Well met, Keith,” Shiro says. “To be honest, it’s odd to see another god around. These days it seems that Olympus is always empty.” 

“For the most part, it is,” Keith says, reaching forward with a hook to retrieve the pot, and ignoring Shiro’s startlement at the ready admittance. Setting the pot carefully on a folded cloth laid out on the wooden planks, Keith lifts the lid, releasing a sharp, fruity aroma. “It’s not unrelated,” they say, stirring the burgundy mixture with a wooden spoon.

“To what?” Shiro asks, power pooling into their gut, queasy. “To Persephone, to me? Or to you? You said you were like me…” The flames in the hearth crackle greedily, heat scouring Shiro’s skin after the cold outside. Sweat drips down their neck, and the strength of that force in them aches and swirls, unsettled. Hecate sent them here to meet Hades, but here is Dionysus instead, not quite themself any longer. She said that Hades was changed. The major gods are frequently absent, their meeting halls are empty – they are teetering on the edge of something. Like recognizes like. “Keith, did something happen to Hades?”

Keith heaves a sigh, sweeping long, rumpled hair over their right shoulder, all frizzy with static. “Look, before I get into it, I just want to say that I don’t know everything,” they say, uncorking a small bottle and pouring a clear liquid into the pot. Not at all reassured and not inclined to hide it, Shiro lets their eyebrows climb higher and higher. Grimacing in return, Keith stirs the mysterious mixture. “Hades didn’t exactly give me a play-by-play on what you two were working on. That guy had schemes for his schemes. But I’ll tell you what I know.” Studiously not looking at Shiro, Keith deposits the pot back into the flames, and places a drinking cup between them, a meager barrier.

“Keith,” Shiro says, moving the cup away and scooting closer, leaning in to make reluctant eye contact. Apprehension is written all over their face, the downward curl of their mouth highlighted by shadows. “What happened to Hades?”

“Don’t freak out,” Keith says, “But Hades is dead.”

“ _What_ ,” Shiro blurts out a little too loudly, rocking back.

Worn, calloused fingers rub at Keith’s eyes in exhaustion. “Hades. Is. Dead,” they repeat, dropping each word like a boulder, articulated and heavy. “He’s gone. It was Hermes Psychopomps and Thanatos who witnessed it and told me, told Hecate.”

“The god of the Underworld, dead,” Shiro says, disbelieving. Their right arm falls across their abdomen, over their ribcage where the power churns still, eddying in their lungs and sinking into the gaps between organs. The workings of their own body are so similar to that of the humans’; they too are made of bones, muscles, brain, and heart, and Kore may not mean much to the pantheon but would Hades be made of such fragile things too? “Olympus does not look kindly on the chthonic powers but surely this would be important news?”

“It is important news, and that’s why it hasn’t spread anywhere,” Keith says, glaring into the fire with hooked poker in hand and jabbing at a misplaced log. “You’re so polite about it. You can just say that the Olympians don’t give a shit about us. We’re too close to the humans for them. And in the end, the Underworld is a place for humans, not gods. Dead gods have no place. They disappear. I would know better than anyone.” The smile that splits across their face is hideous, madness glinting between white, tombstone teeth, frenzied like the Maenad followers that tear kings apart with their bare hands. “If my heart hadn’t been retrieved from the Titans’ feasting table, I wouldn’t be here either. There’d be nothing to bring me back with. So it’s strange that a place like the Underworld exists to process human souls, when Zeus punished Prometheus just for giving them fire.”

Humans, gods, and resurrection, Titans and the cycle of souls, the canon that mortals keep. “You mean Olympus is covering for Hades’ death,” Shiro says, charred fingers tightening around their stomach where the current sings hollow. The roots and vines of their arm wind closer, more secure, more safe. They feel small, outmatched. “He died because of his domain, because we need the humans. And his death is why the gods are absent. And the human’s stories…” They swallow uneasily. “Is that why I’m like this?” 

All Keith’s fevered wildness is politely tucked away in an instant, hidden behind the frowning twist of lips, shrunk to a hint of manic violet light in their eyes. Like the reflection off a freshly sharpened sword edge, the glimmer of a honed axe blade, it’s a flicker of Keith’s nature – freedom, even from the bounds of one’s mind. “Hades liked to say that we are all descendants of the Titans. The first six were born of the Titans, and the rest of the pantheon from them. The humans were brought to life by Prometheus, and so hold a Titan’s spark. There was the Titanomachy, then the Gigantomachy, and this is just the next stage. In his eyes, this is all part of a natural cycle of energy, just part of the passage of time.” They twirl the poker delicately through the air, deft and familiar, and Shiro wonders what they can do with the swords hanging from the walls.

“Like I said, I don’t know everything. He came to me because of my nature, wanted to talk shop.” Keith smirks darkly. “There are gods, then the ordinary humans and their dead, and in between are the heroes. And then there’s me. Mom’s human, and I grew up in the human world, not too different from the other heroes, but I’m really the transplanted scraps of my first birth. It’s how I met Hades for the first time; I went down to the Underworld to bring my mother back to life. I still visit her, and Hades, the petty asshole, knew that, and capitalized on the fact that I kind of owed him.” Keith sets down the poker, and shifts so they face Shiro, elbows propped on the knees of their crossed legs, fingers laced loosely together.

“He wanted me to tell him about my life in the human world, the changes I saw when I visited my mom, what I felt shifting around in my domain. Being deity of ecstasy, passion to the point of insanity, liberation, disorder, all that, he said he thought I would have the closest read on the direction of human zeitgeist,” Keith says, peering up at Shiro, watching their reaction. They look down at their hands, troubled, brow all crinkled up again. “He told me that the Underworld was starting to change. River levels rising, the Fields and Meadows not expanding fast enough. Entrances closing. He wanted to know why and suspected it could be because of the humans. Didn’t give me much more than that, but that seemed bad enough, so I decided to work with him. No one minds the chthonics except other chthonics. I was a human field consultant really, we’d meet near the Necromanteium in Parga. This place was our experimental vineyard, irrigated by the Acheron, soaking up energies from Aornum. Honestly, in a typical year, I’d be in Delphi right now.”

“You sound like you were good friends,” Shiro murmurs, looking at Keith’s hands too, heart beating against their sternum, power raking at their spine. They notice Keith leaning in to examine the way sweat plasters their forelock to their brow, and swipe at their forehead hastily. It’s not enough to ward away that watchful dark blue stare, that beguiling core of hysteria. Shiro is only a few steps away from scrambling through their own panic, still trying to digest Keith’s words and everything Keith has left unspoken. The extent of this plot, large enough to move the Underworld and empty Olympus, is only beginning to sink in.

“I guess we were,” Keith says softly, gaze still trailing after the beads of sweat that trickle down Shiro’s temple. “And damn it all, he was right, too. The way the humans see the world is changing, and the Underworld is just the first step. In each human life is a flare of Titan’s power, godly power, and together the humans can move Olympus in ways we should have anticipated. Not to mention, some of the heroes are equal to gods now, and their bloodlines reach far. There are so many humans and they change so much faster than us.” When Keith looks into Shiro’s eyes, that maddened ember flares, indigo lightning. “Oh, but the gods do not like change. As the humans continue to flourish, the influence will shift in their direction. That was Hades’ hypothesis. I don’t know what his end game was, but he mentioned that he’d started training you, at some point, and I’d assumed that was just part of his plans.”

Shiro raises their right hand from their side, palm up to better show their trembling fingers. They know they will not be able to suppress the tremors, no matter how they try. “I am known more for flowers and sprouts than for chthonic gifts,” they say, splaying out fingers to better show the lichen beginning to creep over the tendrils of their arm, a side effect of the overload. “But there has been a store of power inside me that I have not been able to release. If the human canon is true, this may have been the catalyst for Persephone.”

“Funny thing is that Hades was the one who spread those stories directly,” Keith says grimly, reaching out with a quick glance, a wordless request for permission. “Hermes Psychopomps has a big mouth, if you bribe her with the right things.” When Shiro gives a hesitant nod, Keith touches their charcoal palm, feeling out every bump and crease of twining root and branch as fingers slot loosely with Shiro’s own. The turbulent flow battering at Shiro’s body gentles to the burbling of a brook as Keith’s own power seeps into their skin, sensing and feeling, effervescent. On Shiro’s tongue is the taste of Keith’s presence, the grassiness, the peat, the deep, cloying sweetness of fortified wine. Shiro sighs a little despite themself, but thankfully, Keith either ignores them or doesn’t react, eyes closed. Aside from Hecate’s visits, Shiro receives very little physical contact of any kind, and even this amount of touch is enough to make them obsess over every point of contact, hyperfocus on the warmth and slight dryness of skin, the firm but reassuring grip of Keith’s fingers despite Shiro’s hand being made of crooked, lichen-encrusted roots and branches. Unflinching coils of Keith’s power poke and prod at the energies that keep Shiro’s arm alive, aware, and responsive.

“If you weren’t gifted before, you are now,” Keith says, hand slipping away as they open their eyes. Shiro misses the warmth of that touch immediately, bereft. “That’s chthonic power alright. And it’s definitely not doing you any favors to keep it unused, it’s hurting you. Knowing how things are now…Hades might even have planted those stories to make sure the Olympians couldn’t achieve a perfect cover up. To make sure everyone knew the Underworld would have an administrator, with or without him. Not like he did much of the judgment and administration, what with Minos, Aecthus, and Rhadamanthus, and Nyx’s children, but he kept watch over everything, made the big decisions, and ran the entire place.” That keen indigo stare pins Shiro in place. “Seems like he wanted his new partner director to be you. Maybe the Olympians didn’t like that. For whatever reason, they didn’t want that transition to happen.”

“What are you saying,” Shiro says, flesh hand gripping around their charred wrist, shaking and covered in cold sweat despite the fire. Their own voice seems to echo in their ears, close to pleading. “The Olympians covering up Hades’ death, trying to prevent a partnership or transition – what _kind_ of cover up was this? Keith, are you saying – are you saying the Olympians _assassinated_ Hades? Because of me? I don’t even remember him. I don’t – I don’t remember anything from before spring. I thought if I understood Persephone I would understand what happened but I’m not comprehending anything at all. The Olympians _don’t_ care, not for me, not for the chthonics, not for the humans, so why would they interfere with the Underworld or Hades at all? They are not the cause for these changes!”

Keith stares at them for some minutes, eerily unblinking. “I was hoping you would have the answer to that, actually,” they say eventually. “I already know you don’t know anything, because of what Hermes told me about Hades’ death. You were there. It’s how you got that arm of yours.”

All the heat and blood in Shiro’s body drains away at once, their mouth dropping open soundlessly. The roots of their arm rustle and creak in agitation, shifting unpleasantly. Keith drops their cheek into the palm of their left hand, gaze narrowed and cold. Their right thumb rubs over the second knuckle of their index finger, around and around, repetitive. Like they’re waiting for a reaction. Like they want to know what Shiro will do. 

“It was in Hades’ forecourt in the Underworld,” Keith says in a large, gusting breath, overgrown bangs fluttering away from their forehead. “Zeus and Demeter. Hermes was forced to transport them instantaneously to the Underworld, where you and Hades were before the hearth talking, drinking wine. Zeus struck at Hades as Demeter pulled you away, but you were stronger than expected and Zeus severed your arm at the bicep and gave you that scar on your face. As you screamed Demeter forced the water of Lethe down your throat, retrieved also by Hermes Psychopomps some time before. Hades protested and struggled, but did not prove a match for Zeus, and his throat was slit. Thanatos said that both your blood was spilled in the eschara, and Hermes testified that Hades’ body was cut into nine pieces with the entrails and fat separated out. Hades’ remains and your arm were fed to Hestia’s hearth.”

“We were sacrifices to Olympus,” Shiro murmurs in horror, clammy hand feeling about the joint of their charred arm. Demeter, their own caretaker. Zeus, ruler of the gods. And neither of them wanted Kore, Shiro, to become something more. Neither wanted the Underworld to endure as it was. Ice drips down their spine and they shiver, feeling alone, abandoned. How easy it was to become fodder for Hestia’s fire, forced to feed and stabilize the Olympians.

“Yes, almost textbook,” Keith confirms, turning back to the fire and retrieving the pot, transferring it to the folded cloth. Removing the lid, they begin stirring once more, horribly domestic and mundane. “There was a lot of yelling about corruption, about his influence on you, so I don’t think that Zeus or Demeter had Hades’ mindset about the humans’ influence on Olympus, though that may have changed since. And I’d made a promise with Hades…I said I would find a way for his knowledge and theories to endure, help carry out his investigation.” Keith reaches for the cup and begins to fill it with rich, red liquid. “I had Hermes take me to the forecourt,” they say, hoarse and distant, swallowing. “And I drank all the blood that had poured in the eschara, didn’t leave a drop behind. I made it a thysia, kind of, so I could take Hades’ essence into myself and understand his thoughts, his plans.”

Shiro’s grip on Keith’s arm is sudden and violent enough that they almost drop their spoon. The strain in the corner of Keith’s eyes reveal pain, but they do not protest, and it prompts Shiro to drop their hand hastily. Their eager fingerprints are left behind, dark smudges smeared on Keith’s skin. “Sorry. Just…did it work? What do you know?”

Keith shakes their head. “I don’t know if it worked because I haven’t invoked Hades yet. I needed you here for that, and you wouldn’t be here until you were ready.” They lean close again, eyes bright and voice low, the sour wine-crush sting of alcohol rising into Shiro’s nostrils. “In case I haven’t been clear enough: I’m all in, Shiro. Hades is gone, Hecate’s being social, you’re looking to get your domain back, and the human canon’s already gone on without us. The human world’s going batshit. There’s so much going on that the major Olympians are occupied all the time, and they’re never in Olympus anymore. This unusual winter, these strange weather patterns…the gods have had to interfere and force things along, where a natural process would typically take place. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this all started after Zeus and Demeter’s little trip down to the Underworld. Things are changing and I don’t intend to wade into this next age with my head up my ass when Hades set everything up for us so pretty. God of the Underworld gets absorbed by a deity whose domain includes resurrection? Only one way that’s going to go. And the Underworld isn’t just Hades anymore. It’s you, too.”

Keith nudges the cup in Shiro’s direction, still bent close. The way they tilt their head and look up at Shiro through their lashes is at odds with the serious and determined look on their face. Shiro blinks slow, wide-eyed and trying to take everything in against the pulse of agitated energy at their temples. The sound of steady breathing echoes in Shiro’s ears; their and Keith’s breaths have synchronized. A finger taps against the lip of the cup, the light click of an overgrown nail centering Shiro all at once. “This contains the wine you and Hades were drinking then,” Keith explains, glancing down. “Pomegranate wine. From what Hermes told me, it’s from the only copse of pomegranate trees she’s seen in the Underworld, in Tartarus of all places. In it I’ve added the water from the pool of Mnemosyne to restore memory and counteract the water from Lethe that Demeter forced you to drink.” When Keith looks back into Shiro’s eyes, that dangerous steelshine is back, fractured all the way through. “If you agree, I want us to perform bothros, using this wine as part of the offering, and both our blood as the sacrifice to summon Hades’ knowledge to me and return your power as it was at the time of the thysia.”

A dry huff of a chuckle is knocked out of Shiro’s throat, and they lean away, head throbbing. “After becoming cinders in Hestia’s hearth, will that really be enough? You said yourself that dead gods leave nothing behind. There’s a lot of room left for chance, with no guarantee of working besides.”

“Rituals have always depended on chance, so really, we’ve got nothing to lose,” Keith says, teeth bared in an animal grin. “They’re capricious things, depending on the day’s weather, a month’s moon. This would be no different. I’ll add wine from the vineyards here to boost the connection, since they were partially grown with Hades’ intervention. You have power ties to Hades and Underworld, and the pomegranate wine will give us an even stronger spatial and sentimental tie. If you drink the wine and have your memories restored while I’m making the invocation, that should also strengthen the call with an emotional boost. And your blood was in that eschara too. With all the added sentimental pulls and my own blood added to the mix as a conduit, we should be able to replicate the connections at the time of thysia and burning, and reverse the power flow of the sacrifice.” They sway in even closer, and place a hand on Shiro’s shoulder, squeezing snugly. The power in Shiro hums pleasantly everywhere Keith touches him, sending a pleased shudder through tense muscles as Keith lightly, playfully drums their fingers against Shiro’s trapezius. “Again, I am also kind of the expert on resurrection around here. We’re in my domain now.”

Shiro leans into that hand, searching Keith’s face. They can’t deny that it’s reassuring to know a bothros as slapdash as this falls right into Keith’s wheelhouse. Ironic that the gods have turned to human rituals to manipulate their own order, the same rituals that humans apply uniformly to Olympians, heroes, and chthonics, no distinction between the three. Shiro can’t think of a starker demonstration of how powerful the humans have become, potent enough to exert influence back on Olympus. “So we are. And if the bothros works, what then? What did you hope would happen after I came to you?”

Keith’s grip tightens, a reminder of their strength, mouth set in a grim line. “If the bothros works, I hope to do as ritual demands and leave without turning back, walk straight to Aornum and into the Underworld and figure out what’s happening there. Maybe even get down to Tartarus to see if Nyx and the Titans have anything to say. I want to finish what Hades started, once we have a better idea of what that was. I’m betting you have a starring role.” Their features soften a little as they pat Shiro’s shoulder. “Despite appearances, I don’t intend to dictate what you should and shouldn’t be doing. It’s only natural to fight for the right to your domain. It’s something I’ve had a bit of experience with myself. The Underworld is yours. That remains true no matter what the Olympians have said or done, much less Hades.”

The skin of Keith’s wrist seems thin and delicate when Shiro places their thumb there and presses, feeling out that misplaced rush of blood, the incongruent heartbeat that deities should have no reason to possess. Finger by finger, they wrap their hand around Keith’s wrist, going slow to detect any flex of strong muscles or uneasy tension. But Keith remains resolute and at ease, still cradling Shiro’s shoulder, wildness simmering just out of sight. They are not at all what Shiro would have expected of a deity more associated with raunchy, wine-soaked bacchanalia and sudden, ruthless bouts of cruel violence, but Shiro’s not sure anyone would expect them based on Kore’s image either. As for Persephone, well. There’s only one way to learn more, and they’d already known that when they asked Hecate about Hades. Perhaps they should be more scandalized, more indignant or resistant to the idea of acting against the Olympians, but the other gods have been absent in more ways than one, and not just for the humans. Around Keith’s wrist, they squeeze gently, once.

“Let’s do it,” Shiro says, weight dropping from their shoulders with each word, resolution forming underneath. They can hardly hold back the grin that spreads across their mouth, small, but sincere. Power fills their chest, bubbles and pops, buzzing eagerly at the prospect of a direction, a goal. “I’m with you, Keith. I’m all in. Time to flex all over my new domain, yeah?”

Keith starts a little, hand clamping reflexively around Shiro’s shoulder and eyes widening, but their grasp soon relaxes back to a gentle hold. Imitating Shiro, their thumb sweeps lightly over the curve of Shiro’s neck, a silent apology, the steel in their eyes fading to let the firelight and warmth in. Shiro sees relief in the subtle upturn of lips, the way Keith says, “That’s the spirit.” Their gaze travels over Shiro’s face slowly, so intent that the weight of Keith’s regard is as a physical touch, brushing intimate and lazy over cheeks, eyelids, lips, chin. What measure Keith takes away, Shiro does not know, but it seems to please them in some capacity, because they grin as they sit back, letting out a small sound of amusement. “Thank you, Shiro,” they say, removing their hand and reaching back for the black-striped amphora.

Shiro laughs, throaty and maybe a little mocking. “I’m not sure that thanks are necessary. All I did was arrive on Hecate’s recommendation and listen while you made your pitch on why I ought to work with you. As you’ve so astutely demonstrated, this is to my advantage as well. I’m not keen on being unaware or ignorant when I can be making my own decisions. Neither of us have enough information and we’ve no one else to ask. Even Hermes can’t retrieve information from someone else’s mind, as much as she might like to.” They clench and unclench their right hand repeatedly as if it could release some excess power, kneading at the air and observing the growing lichen patches. “What would you have done if I refused?”

Mixing the vineyard wine into the pot, Keith’s eyes are heavy lidded-in a deliberate display of demure contemplation. “I had faith that you wouldn’t,” they say. “Whether or not you believe that the threads of the Moirai tangle the gods as much as they bind the humans, I believe in existing connections, chance meetings, the sequence of events. I’d be a shitty deity of religious ecstasy otherwise. I don’t just babysit Delphi for a quarter of the year out of obligation. In all the time that I knew Hades, I never met you or anyone else. But I fulfill the thysia and both Hecate and Hermes arrive on my doorstep. Judgment, Transition, and the Messenger all come knocking, and now, here you are. I would have had to be a massive idiot to ignore the signs, and like I said, parts of your story are familiar to me, and you are an extremely necessary part of the canon. Rituals are flexible but they exist regardless because there must be an order to our communication – but with all order comes a little chaos, a little wiggle room.” Keith smirks when they glance back up at Shiro. “Right now, we’re in that stage of chaos. Appropriate, don’t you think?”

“You’re certainly living up to your domain,” Shiro says, thoughtful, surveying Keith through narrowed eyes. “You’ve got an interesting perspective, Keith. Regardless of the reasons, I’m glad that we met. You should come over for tea when you can, I’ve got nothing but time.”

Keith’s back goes rigid in surprise, turning their head to stare at Shiro. When they melt into a genuine grin, the power in Shiro responds, rumbling gently as if to persuade Keith to draw closer. “You say that now, but if everything works out you’ll be wishing you had more time instead. I doubt that minding the Underworld is uneventful,” Keith says, wolfish smirk revealing sharp canines. Using the back end of the spoon, they begin to dig a hole in the ashy clear space of the central hearth. “Aside from the view, there’s another side benefit to this location.”

A remote area, relatively close to running water, perfect for several different ritual uses, including bothros. “Experimental vineyard, you said,” Shiro says, curiosity coloring their voice, leaning in to help widen the pit for bothros. The ash parts easily for them and makes reaching a cubit in depth a much simpler matter; soon they are turning out cold chunks of rich brown soil, partially frozen by the harsh winter. “Not just for wine, but for rituals, too? I see both you and Hades had an eye for real estate.”

“Kill two birds with one stone, why not?” Keith says, flapping a hand lazily. “There’s been little experimentation with the properties of wine, even though it’s so commonly used in rituals. I was in it for the grapes and Hades was in it for the R&D. Even if the humans are the ones performing them, the rituals still work on us, why not use it to our advantage? That’s why I had the pomegranate wine you and Hades were drinking on hand – he brought me several baskets full of the fruit and asked me to try making a small batch, though I didn’t think to ask where they came from at the time. In all honesty, I didn’t really care then, I just thought it was a tasty-sounding idea.”

“I’ll do my best to savor it despite circumstances,” Shiro says, bemused, pushing the soil to the side and patting a rounded pit wall in place. “You mentioned drinking the wine during invocation. How did you expect to structure this bothros?”

“I’m thinking the blood sacrifice will be more significant after you drink the wine,” Keith replies, spinning the wooden spoon twice in thought before jabbing it back into the soil. “So libations first, then initial prayer, you drink the wine, we bleed a little and make sure to sprinkle that around some, more prayer, then we turn our backs on this pit and see what happens.” The pit wall Keith has just finished gets a fond pat.

“Sounds straightforward enough,” Shiro says, flicking soil off their flesh hand and watching the way the damp and nutrients are absorbed by her wooden arm. They drag the wine cup within easy reach. The power in them seems to contract, vibrating, anticipating the next, momentous step. It feels like there should be more preparation for this, more momentum, but in some ways, this is a day as any other, and there’s nowhere to go but forward. Shiro gathers themself together with a single deep breath, and the calmest smile they can muster. “Let’s get started then?”

Keith is staring again with warm eyes, biting at their lower lip. “Sure,” they say, raspy, pulling their dagger free from its sheath with a pure, metallic tone. “Got to see what kind of tea selection you have, after all.” Shiro can’t help but beam at them even as Keith firmly keeps their gaze on the pot, raising it over the pit and tilting it.

The wine and water mixture swirls easily into the pit, instantly muddied by the soil and turning the nauseating color of old battlefield blood. A ritual this may be, but it is simple, humble in form and manner. Anyone can perform the ritual, anyone can seek advice and make a prayer.

“To Hades,” Keith murmurs, solemn but affectionate. “To thy power, thy gift that cradles the Underworld, flowing through every sunken river and dreamless field. To thy wealth, counted in wits and strategy, forgoing underground riches. To thy tender heart, that thus called us inheritors to thee. Thou who we call friend, counsel, and partner all three, we beseech thee. To close the open circle, to pass on thy wisdom, to walk paths thy hands have set, we beseech thee. Thy truth be told, thy intent be named, thy knowledge, blood, and essence inherited; we beseech thee to hear our call.”

A quick look out of the corner of Keith’s eye is Shiro’s cue; they drink. The wine is unexpected in every way – thicker than it seems, like a syrup, cloying and clinging, tart and overwhelmingly flavorful, girded by the dark taste of smoke like Shiro’s arm, like wood chips, like the burning center of the Earth, full-bodied in the way of spices, with a light layer of straight sweetness dancing on Shiro’s tongue. All of it is shot through with a sense of freshness, a cooling sensation coating the mouth, and a distinct mineral, meaty taste, almost salty. Shiro drinks like they’re dying, unable to stop after the first mouthful. They drink and drink until all the wine is gone. When they look to Keith for the dagger, they are already beginning to see the effects. Everything is refracted as if through a glass, blurring and indistinct, distorted in shape, firelit edges unusually bright. Keith is already bleeding, flicking careless drops around the boundary of the pit, so Shiro hastily opens a deep gash in their palm, watches the blood bead and gather and flow into the pit, returning to the soil as is the nature of things, returning to the rotting nourishment of humus and leaf litter. They blink rapidly as they feel the blood drip off the tips of their fingers, and they shake their hand awkwardly around the rim of the pit as they saw Keith do. Before Keith bows their head to pray again, Shiro catches the concerned look they give them, and reaches out. Keith’s palm is wet with their own blood, but more importantly, their hold is secure, their hand is warm, and they are there sitting next to Shiro, sincere. As they sway, disoriented, they hear Keith’s voice as if underwater.

“To Hades: we call upon thee to right those wrongs visited upon you, we call upon thy judgment and thy governance, that thy will be upheld by the domains conferred upon us. We beseech thee, that thy burdens and toils would thus bear fruit guided by thy providence, that thy knowledge be imparted on us to guide these cycles to a close. As partners and inheritors two we invoke thee, that all crossroads be bridged, all rivers forded, that remembrance and reason be restored to the righteous. Thy will be done, under your name shall we two wreak the change that is meant to pass. To Hades: we invoke thee, because you couldn’t have just left us a note or something. Get your ass over here.”

Even through layers of heavy cotton, the warmth of Keith’s hand bleeds through at Shiro’s shoulder, guiding them to turn their back on the pit. They hold hands wound to wound until they can’t, separating with the slight stick of old blood tacky on their skin, a metallic, sweetly sickening scent that summons a flash of sound, there and gone again, the clash of pandemonium, overlapping shouts and screams. Shiro cannot hear anything, can only feel the rapid expansion of their ribs, their lungs, their meat and bones. They whimper as they shuffle around on their knees, lured by a tender touch and the swell of their power, rocking, rolling, rising to their skin in a sudden plume that has their vision bursting in bright sparks and colors, and when Shiro opens their eyes, they look unseeing into overwhelming light, overexposed and illuminated. 

_skin tingles power grows awareness grows you grow stretch feel new feels good feels familiar silver hair dark skin feels familiar hello new god in the meadow hello feels forest feels dirt feels rotten good like fertilizer like fungi like rich soil like hello kore hello I feel you like you feel me feels like something new budding fresh feels like hello hades what will you be teaching me today no its fine demeter does not mind me the gods do not mind me they come only when the seasons turn but we are in the middle we are still changing and change we will recreate and we will turn again turn underneath turn to the worlds never seen before to the creep of flooding rivers to the dying home of heroes to this patch of unearth that shrinks and shrinks but feels rotten good like compost like worms writhing feels fresh feels like growth like a tree growing in chaos ruby red and shining this tree will thrive will nurture will be a sign a sign hecate comes hello you found me like hades found me i am growing I am turning again and again turning underneath turning rotten good and healthy and here I say hello I say hello persephone I say hello to the tree that fruits the tree that harvests wine like blood fresh and bottled o h we turn we turn we turn to the door and knives in our arm but we are rotten good we feels like fertilizer like growth like mushrooms and dead things that live again and we say hello hades what did you teach me today and say hello persephone who are you becoming today and we burn we breathe we scream we grow again we grow we turn and turn we say hello say hello say hello_

_hello_  
  
Shiro gasps, springing upright and delivering a very solid and firm headbutt, driving a shrieking, unknown stranger onto Keith’s pallet, where they huddle miserably. Shiro’s heart pounds away in their chest, but they do not hurt anymore. Instead, they are filled with a strange energy that rises off every inch of skin, all that power dispersed, spread out, nestled deep in every crevice of Shiro’s being. Careful not to turn back, Shiro looks down at their hands. The wound in their flesh palm has healed, leaving behind a silvery scar, and their right hand is changed, its twining contours transformed into the dark brown-black marbling of petrified wood, smooth and shining and incongruously flexible where joints and tendons ought to be. With a slight mental push, a sprout grows from the stone, extends its leaves, flowers in a small pink bloom, then shrivels and dies, falling away into dust.

Keith groans next to them, sitting up with a hand to their head. “You’re so loud, Hermes,” they complain, rubbing at their temples. They look to Shiro, giving them a quick once-over, eyebrows popping up in surprise. “Hm. Looks like it worked. Nice arm. And your hair’s all white now, it suits you. Hades and Hecate both have the platinum schtick going on too.” They grimace. “Then again, so does Zeus.”

Shiro drags their braid over their shoulder to check, but Hermes interrupts, tossing a frazzled crimson ponytail out of her face with a huff. “Look, I’m sure you both look fine and all but maybe we should focus on more important things like, I don’t know, what’s happening in the Underworld? Now that you can actually enter the place and not have Cerberus chomp either of you to bits, I mean. Amazing what the right clearance can do.”

“Wait, wait, check-in first,” Keith says, still rubbing at their eyes. “Shiro. Persephone? What’s your read on things now? And Hermes…how did you even know to come here?”

“Hecate sent me!” Hermes trills, throwing a hand into the air, rolling to lounge lazily on her side. “Came away from the Olympians just for you, and here I am to pompa your psyche back to the Underworld. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s like the Moirai, except actually helpful.” Her eyes flash, voice flattening in seriousness. “All told, it’s better if all this nastiness wraps up as soon as possible. I don’t mind a bit of dirty work since it’s in the job description, but it’s been scummy around here lately. Time to scoop that layer off. And I quite liked Hades. Kind of prissy, but clever, and I appreciated the snark. Didn’t seem to be a good reason for getting rid of him.”

Keith’s fingers work mechanically through their hair as they tuck the strands into a neat braid, only emphasizing the jut of their horns, a little bigger now, a more infinite black than before, reflecting hues of purple in weakening firelight. “Hades didn’t mention what he was thinking to anyone but the three of us and Hecate because he was didn’t want to be stopped, or have the Olympians retaliate,” they say, gaze distant as they sort through newly acquired memories. “He really thought Persephone was the future, that nothing would change until Persephone took the helm.”

“Change,” Shiro repeats softly, watching minute blooms of verdant moss creep down their arm in a lush ribbon, strand by strand. In an instant, the whole of it shrivels to brown, drying into a scraggly clump, snuffed out. Swiping a hand down their arm, the dead moss lump falls forlornly to the cabin floor, leaving behind no trace of its presence in the stone substrate, smooth and cool to the touch. Shiro’s fingers linger there, on the prosthesis where no living thing should be able to grow. “In the beginning, I sought out Hades myself because his power felt like mine, and I wanted to know what it meant. Hecate arranged our meeting then too, since she knew us both. And he agreed to teach me, but since my chthonic power kept growing we started working in the Underworld, to see how extensive my powers were. And Demeter…she didn’t visit often, but she noticed my power was changing and it seemed to make her jumpy. She kept asking me if I felt any different or if I was okay and just generally being invasive, so I never said anything. But one day she came to my house when I was visiting Hades and caught me returning. She flew into this…indignant rage. Said all these things about Hades corrupting me, how he was bitter about Zeus getting to rule Olympus, and how I shouldn’t be swayed or tricked into joining the Underworld or helping him. She tried to get me to promise I’d stay in my house for my own good, tried to say she was looking out for me, but I didn’t take kindly to her making decisions for me or acting like I was too stupid to know what I wanted, like I was still a young deity rather than growing into my title. Growing a pomegranate tree in Tartarus in the presence of pure Chaos was supposed to be my last test, but...” Shiro shrugs awkwardly, rubbing at the join of their right arm.

“Zeus said something similar when she killed Hades,” Keith says, blunt and clearly not sharing Shiro’s hesitation. “She was all, your chthonic desires will never have a place here, Olympus will not be felled by you, you cannot overthrow me with the help of just one minor spring deity, blah blah. No offense meant, Shiro. Though, Demeter was shouting something about how she’d keep you out of Hades’ evil clutches so he’d never be able to control you or use you, something like that. Sounds like Demeter and Zeus didn’t have the same motivations or goals, they just both thought Hades was using you to, what, take over Olympus? Like Hades even had a plan, he didn’t know what would happen once Persephone fully came to power, he just wanted to make sure Shiro was in place and poised to take control of the Underworld. Either way – they really didn’t want you to be under his thumb or manipulated, so it must be tied to Persephone’s domain.”

Shiro shakes their head, thumbing at the fully white tail of their braid. It’s strange to miss the black, and idly, they wonder if they’ll ever have black hair again, if they’ll ever shift back to their spring guise. “It’s not a full manifestation yet. The pomegranate tree was the first step towards asserting full domain, but I never got to feel everything out. So I still don’t know what it is.”

“Aw, you’re a baby,” Hermes coos, simpering. “I sure don’t miss being a baby god, it was soooo annoying. It’s funny, Hades had me spreading stories around the human world to try and protect Persephone, but maybe it tipped the Olympians off instead and made all this happen. Big mistake. Sounds like he was just going to dump all the work on you anyway, Persephone. What a wimp.”

Keith glares at her with a low growl, looping their finished braid up into a tight bun. “Did _anyone_ know what would actually happen? Sounds more and more like everyone was just going off a vague idea of what _could_ happen. The canon is shifting and the human world is all messed up but that could just as easily be because Zeus shot herself in the foot by sacrificing Hades and Persephone. I don’t think we’ve ever had a scenario like that. And Hecate’s fingerprints are all over this, that should be a bigger signal than anything that we’re in an active situation. In the end, no one really knows what’s happening.”

“We’re still in the moment of chaos,” Shiro murmurs, looking back down at their arm and its dull, water-worn polish. “I guess we won’t learn more until we get to the Underworld.”

“Cool, great chat, this means you’ll finally let me do my job, right?” Hermes says brightly, getting to her feet and dusting herself off. Grabbing the basket of discarded outerwear from behind them, she dumps their coats on their heads with a cackle and walks right over Keith’s clean pallet, flinging the arch window open with a loud crash of heavy wood on stone. Something cracks, but she ignores Keith’s loud, displeased hiss. Outside, the moon hangs full and heavy in the sky, expectant. “Let’s get a move on, chop chop. Ritual’s not even really done until we leave, right?” 

Keith grumbles turn to squawks as Hermes grabs them by the waist and tucks them under her arm, Shiro heaved over her shoulder like an unruly sack of potatoes. Dangling over her muscled back and flailing their legs, Shiro is in the perfect position to see ghostly wings unfurl from her sturdy sandals, dappled in a gradient of ash gray to iridescent black. With a single push off the window’s sill, the three of them are airborne, the rush of vertigo pulling all the sound out from Shiro’s dry throat with the drop of their gut. Hermes crows with mischievous laughter as she soars through the sky like neither of her burdens weigh a thing, drowning out Keith’s indignant shouts. Stunned silent, Shiro can only watch the world pass by below them, everything dyed shades of blue. With the moon risen high, the night is not dark at all but full of light, casting shadows, revealing shapes, highlighting the small glowing dots where nighttime travelers huddle by fires, sleeping, feasting, or keeping wary watch. Fields are reduced to squares and grids, abstract patterns, and they follow the path of the Acheron, a swiftly moving snake winding and wending its way to Aornum proper, until it rushes underground and into the cave system of Charonium, where Hermes lands and unceremoniously drops them to the rocky ground.

“Would it kill you to be a bit gentler?” Keith groans, sitting up. Rubbing their own backside, Shiro can’t help but agree.

“Aw, I know you can take it, hon,” Hermes titters, flipping her hair over her shoulder. From a pouch strapped to her hip, she produces an orb of light. “We’ll have to go by foot from here.”

The cave is damp and dark, but Shiro is not afraid, not with a direction to walk in and Keith and Hermes by their side. It’s exciting, in its own way, for Kore had always gone to the Underworld together with Hades and had never taken the more conventional journey with all its roadblocks and characters. The five rivers are familiar, for they are common sights in the Underworld and spiral down deep to Tartarus and the swamp of Styx, but they have never met Charon or Cerberus, or any of the three judges. The floor grows steeper, the tunnels narrower, and they brace themselves against slick rock, stooped over, forced to walk single file as they travel deeper into the earth, closer to the faint rustle of rushing water. Hermes’ orb lights the road ahead, hovering over her shoulder and emitting a cold, white glow, the only thing warding away the dark.

With few distractions, Shiro catalogues what they can sense – the wet under their hand, the unceasing drip of water, the light crunch of their feet on miniscule remnants of rock sand, the sound of their breathing, out of sync with Keith and Hermes, and hard to hear. Their heart thunders away, power pulsing through their body in a parallel pattern. Their arm throbs along, though stone should feel nothing. They do not hurt anymore. Hands itch, empty, straining for some phantom sensation. “Keith,” Shiro says eventually, unable to bear the looming tension, “Did you take this path to the Underworld on your katabasis?”

Keith and Hermes both burst into raucous laughter, and in close quarters, the sound amplifies, as if the three of them were wrapped in a bubble. Shiro can’t see their expressions, but Keith’s voice is full of good humor when they say, “Ahaha, oh no, I went through the entrance at the bottom of Alcyonian Lake. The shepherd Prosymnus helped me out.”

“Poor Prosymnus, he just wanted to raw you, he just couldn’t live long enough,” Hermes giggles, the torch orb bobbing with her delight.

“I made it up to him, didn’t I?” Keith says, prim for a deity who rode a fig wood cock on a shepherd’s tomb and sent his soul to Elysium in the process. 

“I didn’t realize that part of the story was true,” Shiro says, wide eyed and attempting to ward away the creeping mental images. 

“No one can say I don’t keep my promises. I would be a poor deity of religious ecstasy otherwise,” Keith sniffs, pride on the line, apparently. “Anyway, all entrances lead to Charon and Cerberus in the end, so in a way, your access point doesn’t matter.” 

“Access points definitely don’t matter to me,” Hermes says with glee. “Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t matter to you two either, you’d just walk straight into the forecourt if you wanted. But proto-Persephone hasn’t asserted their domain yet, so it’s safer this way.”

Hermes does an undignified slide down a sharply inclined rock and Shiro follows suit, barely able to avoid landing in the rushing torrent of water waiting at the end. An overflowing river submerges almost all the ground of the large, open cavern yawning above them, full of stalagmites reaching down, knobby uneven fingers grasping. The force of the water has scraped the cavern smooth in parts, spraying against the rocks in gusts of white foam, droplets landing on Shiro’s face from where they stand. A phantom sensation hooks them in their gut, tells them to follow.

“Shit,” Hermes hisses. “It shouldn’t be like this at all. Both of you come here, we’ve gotta pick the pace up.”

This time there’s no protest as Hermes hauls them both under her arms again and takes off at a harrowing speed, orb racing along with them. She’s a deft flier, tackling hairpin turns and protruding rocks with the ease of long practice. The river is constant white noise in their ears and they follow its path deeper into the caverns. It’s warm, the same humidity that Shiro remembers as Kore learning in the forecourt, Kore growing, not at all cold like many claim the Underworld to be. They must be getting closer.

“I can’t believe this,” Keith murmurs, hand clenched in their robes to protect against wind chill, fiercely knotted brow and troubled gaze fixed on the river. Its waters have gained speed and overrun the banks, flooding through the cavern such that no path for walking is left, conquering a truly frightening amount of ground. As the cavern system widens the river shows no signs of slowing down, greedily filling every empty space, sloshing against the cave walls like a moving lake, rather than a stream. “There are no souls anywhere. I haven’t seen a single one. And we’ve passed the point where the Acheron should have split into three. The Cocytus has been swallowed. And the Phlegethon, has it been extinguished? How is that possible?”

“Last time I was here, it wasn’t this bad,” Hermes says through gritted teeth, no trace of playfulness left in her voice. “The rivers were still split, there were still souls walking around everywhere. But with all the bullshit going on in the human world, it’s been a while. And I haven’t been called on much for souls, if at all.” Sweat drips down her face, and her hand digs harder into Shiro’s side. “Thanatos even told me not to worry. I’m thinking I should have paid more attention.”

“When did she last talk to you?” Keith asks, as they soar into a larger branch of the caverns, where a deluge of water makes the place into a veritable system of interconnected grottoes.

“Just a week ago,” Hermes replies softly. “…you think I should believe her?”

“I don’t know,” Keith says, uncertain, and catches Shiro’s gaze. Their eyes have regained that feral metal shine, now ringed in dark red, color seeping inwards like the facets of a gem. “It’s not a good sign. But we’re in a moment of chaos and disorder. It could mean anything.”

Shiro’s mouth parts around their power, around the words that are summoned from their breath and title. “Believe in her,” they breathe, lashes fluttering, power pulsing to the tips of their fingers. Unable to help themself as their limbs grow heavy, they latch onto Hermes’ arm where it wraps around their middle. “Believe her. She is Nyx’s child, and Nyx is born of Chaos, mightier than any Titan. There is a reason the pomegranate tree was sown in Tartarus. Just another sign.”

Keith and Hermes both stare at them but Shiro can’t feel it, can feel only the hook that draws their gaze to the next cavern system. Hermes rounds the bend, and like a magnet, Shiro’s eyes are led to the wolfish three-headed dog patiently sitting on a small patch of land that has managed to remain free of the encroaching water. Behind it is a twisted gate wrought in a black metal, crystals sprouting from the crevices, purple and pink and glimmering when Hermes’ torch orb comes closer. Dogs, Shiro remembers abruptly, are associated with Hecate. Tail wagging and much fluffier and friendlier looking than expected, Cerberus barks at them loudly, prancing in a circle and showing off the beautiful electric blue coloration in his fur, calling for their attention.

“Still guarding the gates? What a good boy!” Hermes croons. Their landing is much gentler this time, and Keith and Shiro both get their bearings in short order. While Keith and Hermes move ahead to give the enthusiastic guard his well-deserved ear scritches, Shiro goes around Cerberus to approach the cloaked and hooded ferryman stoically leaning against the gates, muscled arms crossed over a broad chest, large, metal oar leaned against his shoulder. The edge of the paddle looks like it’s been sharpened.

“Charon,” Shiro says, name springing to the fore, despite this being a first meeting. “We are well met.”

“Persephone,” Charon replies, standing to attention and bowing, a thick salt-and-pepper braid swinging out from the heavy hood. His eyes flash yellow in the minimal light, displaying the trait that earned him his name. “We are indeed well met, though we would be better served if the circumstances were not so dire. There is little time to waste. We are no longer receiving souls, we have not for some time. Those that were awaiting judgment on the banks have simply dissolved, they were not swept away. With the rivers all merged, I myself may not be long in fading. Please, make haste.”

Cerberus whines, nudging Shiro with his snout and curling around them, Keith, and Hermes as Charon turns to the gate and inserts his paddle into the almost invisible slot in the center. With nary a creak of an oily hinge, the gates swing open with a single mighty push.

“Thanks Charon,” Hermes says, serious, grasping the ferryman’s forearm. “See you on the other side.”

“I’m sure,” Charon says, droll and face unchanging, though he clutches at Hermes’ forearm just as firmly. He and Keith simply stare at each other and exchange a firm nod, both thumping their right arms lightly across their chests in farewell.

“Thank you,” Shiro says, wishing there were more time. Cerberus barks, tail wagging, trotting up and giving Shiro a friendly lick all up the side of their face, sitting back after an acknowledging pat to the neck.

“Thank _you_ , Persephone,” Charon says, with the barest smile lining his mouth. “May your rule be unturned, unchallenged, and true.”

With that, Shiro darts after Keith and Hermes, the gates closing with a clang. They resist the urge to look back, but somehow they know that both Cerberus and Charon are gone, faded, domains swept away in the rising waters.

Now they run through great halls instead of caverns, ceilings high above them, floors chiseled from rock and worn smooth by eons of traffic, not great for traction. Hermes looks into every room they pass by, but the halls are empty, save for the insidious, ubiquitous sound of water rushing, dripping, trickling, a constant reminder of the urgent near future, unknown though it remains. The corridors echo only with their hurried footsteps; there are no souls or shades or signs of any sort of life, mortal or otherwise. The judgment hall has been abandoned with no one left to assess, the three places of honor left vacant, and the three of them run quickly through it the same as any other insignificant room or hallway. They skid into the forecourt and the foreboding throne where Hades would have sat; the hearth has burnt to glowing embers and the eschara has been knocked to the ground. Keith freezes, shudders with hands on their knees, an animal noise of hurt and despair curling in their throat. Shiro isn’t much better, their right arm spasming, nerves all lit up. Their left hand slaps into Keith’s on what feels like instinct, and the current connects, shakes their spines straight and startles them upright, fingers twining, interlocking. They take in a deep breath together, once, twice, and a tide of power rolls through them, head to toe, body to body, like recognizing like. Shiro is looking at Keith; Keith looks back, and Shiro wonders if there’s metalshine in their eyes too. They are where they need to be, nearing the end of this moment, nearing the brink they’ve been teetering on for all these months, whether they knew it or not.

“It’s good to be back,” Shiro croaks, and together, they begin to run again, in lockstep with each other. They are more alert than ever, refreshed like they just woke up from a good night’s rest.

Keith laughs hoarsely. “Welcome back,” they say, raspy and wistful, holding on tight to Shiro’s hand. Up ahead, Hermes looks back at them like they’re a couple of fools until she runs into a burly arm, swept right up into a spin with a shriek.

Thanatos laughs, hands locked around Hermes’ middle, and spins her lover around once more before setting her back on her feet. “Hello lover,” she says, leering.

Hermes smacks her middle, pouting. “You scared me!” she protests, then grabs at Thanatos’ robes beseechingly. “What’s happening!? All the souls are gone, the rivers are flooding – you told me not to worry!!”

Thanatos grins nastily, eager for a fight as always. “’Cause you don’t _need_ to worry, babe. There isn’t anything to worry about. Just things taking their course. Just another end to the age. Everyone strong gets defeated at one point or another. No one can avoid an end, not even the gods.” She clasps Hermes’ wrist, lifts her hand up to press a kiss in her palm. Hermes looks charmed despite herself. Raising her head, Thanatos props a hand on a jaunty hip as she appraises Shiro and Keith, still hand in hand. “Persephone, well met,” she says by rote. “You’re finally here. Mom sent me to guide you – with the rivers overflowing, most of the paths are overrun. Terrain’s changed a lot since you were here last.”

“Well met, Thanatos, and thank you,” Shiro replies, faint again, mind racing over the implications. The phantom hook digs into their spine and pulls, they see Keith wince out of the corner of their eye. At the unspoken cue, the four of them set off in a run again, this time with Thanatos in the lead.

“All the souls are gone,” Thanatos says as if giving a report, and perhaps that’s exactly what she’s doing. “It wasn’t too long ago, maybe a couple of weeks, a month. But it happened, they just shattered into all these shiny looking sparkles. People are still dying, they’re just not coming here. Judges faded at the start of winter and we stopped getting any souls at all. Guess it makes sense – after Hades died, the Asphodel Meadows and Elysian Fields stopped expanding and it was getting really crowded. They’re both completely flooded now though.” She glances at Keith over her shoulder, gives them a shark’s grin that they return with just as much threat. “Looks like death didn’t really stick though, hm? Good for you, Hades. Souls started to degrade right after you died. They’d stop talking and moving around and just kind of lie down and collapse, like they were sick from some sort of wasting disease. Letting them fade was a good thing, really. Based on what Hermes told me though, the Olympians haven’t caught on. They’re just assuming things are operating like usual. Not like they ever come down here anyway. Dumbasses.” Thanatos and Keith roll their eyes at the same time, like they planned it. Hermes just lets loose another giggle.

“The Underworld is getting faded,” Shiro says, and knows it to be true, the same way they know that Charon and Cerberus no longer exist, that no souls will enter the Underworld again.

“That’s what I think too!” Thanatos says, peeling off from the hewn hallways onto a backroad weaving through low brush, crashing onto a path bordered by a new series of waterfalls that definitely hadn’t been there before, based on what Shiro could remember. “Lethe broke through here, better be careful. The way Mom figures it? Humans hit critical mass. All things born of Chaos return to Chaos; all entities are energy and there’s a finite amount. If the Titans are in power the Olympians can’t be. If the Olympians are in power then the humans can’t be. But that’s changing. With so many humans living and dying everyday, with the Olympians so busy trying to put things to rights, with domains released and unclaimed, Chaos is back in business trying to balance the ledgers. So no more Underworld, no more souls, no more energy. Canon’s changing, baby.”

Keith’s brow furrows as they carefully cross a flooded portion of the path, hopping from stone to stone. “Hades’ theory was that the power balance was starting to tip more towards the humans. That’s not true?”

Thanatos just lets out a dismissive snort, helping Hermes over a slippery stone. “Can’t see why both can’t be true at once. It’s all energy to Chaos. I mean, Hades was around _before_ the Underworld was a thing, just like Chaos was around before any of us existed. The Underworld only came around after the Titanomachy happened and Prometheus did his thing. It’s all just sequences if you ask me. Titanomachy depletes the ambient energy of the world, the creation of humans and the use of the Underworld as a soul storage space balances it right back out again. And now we’re tilting the other way.”

They’re racing across muddy paths, sloshing deeper into the Underworld, and maybe it’s because they’re running that Shiro’s starting to feel chased, hunted, a hunch and shadow following their every move. That phantom hook pulls incessantly; their hand is rigid around Keith’s like a vise. Realization haunts them, flickers every time they turn their head, taunts them in the corner of their eye. Their muscles tremble; the back of their neck feels cold even with the weight of their hair draped across it. They are damningly aware that their right arm is no longer living, reduced to stone, an imitation of its old shape with all the composition replaced, an imposter.

If these changes are Chaos’ doing, then why is Persephone needed? Why is Persephone feared? What is Persephone’s domain?

They run past the domain of Chaos and Shiro can feel it, feel that void raising every hair on their body and jilting their very essence, grabbing hold and prying them open, inquisitive, invasive. They fall onto their knees with a gasp, heart too big for their ribs, and Keith’s got their palms on Shiro’s face, worried indigo and lethal red, the rush water becoming the rush of blood becoming the rush of power pulsing, flowing into every corner of their body, even the stone arm, and they are a closed circuit, they are connected and Keith hauls them up with an arm around Shiro’s waist as stars wink into existence behind Shiro’s eyes, brightening their vision. Not imitation. Crystallization. Cohesion.

They stumble into another large hall, walls glowing with the heat and warmth of the Earth, and there is a woman standing at the end, turning to welcome them, short hair brushing against the collar of formfitting armor, framing her thin face. Thanatos goes to her side, hand in hand with Hermes. She nods to them in greeting.

“Nyx,” Shiro whispers, knowing before they recognize her.

“Persephone,” she says, offering a thin smile. Her eyes flick quickly to Keith. “Hades. Welcome back.”

Shiro pushes themself upright, Keith helping them, power burgeoning, like it did when they were Kore in the field, Kore still growing. “The Titans,” they gasp, “And the heroes in the Fields, did they…”

“Hades’ good friend Heracles came by,” Nyx says, coming closer, tilting her head idly as she studies the pair of them, odd, reborn deities both. “You have interesting companions, I’ll say that much. Most of them were Olympian enough that they wouldn’t fade like the other souls, so he whisked them off to Mount Ida to stay under Rhea’s care. As for the Titans, I’ve released them, and Cronus has taken his kin with him to his lands in the Isles of the Blessed. With Chaos awake, they’ve effectively been retired from the cycle of power, much like Rhea. They won’t be threatening anything anytime soon.”

“What about you and your children?” Keith asks.

“Chaos is my kin,” Nyx laughs, “So of Chaos we will remain. We will be fine. This flood, like many things, will not be forever. Now, come. We have been waiting for you.” She looks them both in the eye as she walks out through a side entrance, leading them to the rest of Tartarus. The deepest level of the Underworld is not impervious to swollen waters, the swamp of Styx having tripled in size, saturating the ground with water and making every step a sucking slurry of mud. Even so, Nyx’s steps are confident and unencumbered, graceful. Here too there is only the sound of water, suffering souls all returned to Chaos, returned to specks of energy, as is befitting of the cycle. Shiro’s mind drifts with the current, and Keith glances at them worriedly as they approach the only other living thing in the landscape, a behemoth pomegranate tree, a surprising, thriving thing fed by Kore’s budding domain, the energy of Chaos, the ebbing power of Titans, the flooding waters of all the rivers of the Underworld, roots buried and hidden deep in the Earth.

“I trust you know what to do?” Nyx says and smiles fondly, like Persephone is just another one of her wayward children. And they aren’t, but Hades had always worked closely with Nyx and her children, always trusted them because they were of Chaos and Chaos was of all things. Not the Moirai, but something more instinctive than that, swaying and moving along with the direction of the world, sensing the cycles and turning, changing with them.

Change.

Shiro reaches up to a shining, ruby red pomegranate, fruit of their own power. Close the circuit. They will not need a bothros for this. Digging thumbs into the thick flesh, they pry the fruit apart. The broken seeds splatter juice across their hands; on their left it shines like blood, drips down their fingers, traces the lines of tendons, bones, and ligaments, down to the wrist where their pulse beats, made in imitation of the humans as the humans were made in imitation of them. They offer a splinter of the pomegranate to Hades. Wildness in their eyes, Hades looks at them, mouth trembling, and offers faith, offers companionship, takes the fruit and plucks a seed, lays it on the tongue to burst apart, to savor, the same fruit that they had fermented and remade the first time, and then the second, the same way they had been born once, twice, and then a third time. Persephone watches with lidded eyes as Hades eats of the fruit again, and bites into their own pomegranate, not bothering to be neat. They close their eyes against the surge of life, the juice that coats their tongue and soaks their throat, the tart, the sweet and the bitter, the texture and grit of the seeds that they swallow down. Somehow it burns, like when their power was burnt out and away, excised, except a piece of it had remained here, preserved by their own efforts. The fire burns away their doubts, their uncertainty, and when they open their eyes again the sound of water rushes back in, eager and still patient, like Hades, who stands tall next to them, mouth now stained by pomegranate instead of blood, the sign of Persephone’s favor, the sign of their trust. They know what they must do.

Persephone bows their head, closes their eyes and lets the waters merge and rise, lets them become a deluge that pushes everything over the brink and surges past this moment through to the other side, where all rivers converge and meet Oceanus at the edge of the world, where all the faded things are washed away and everything feels rotten good feels dirt feels familiar feels fresh feels like turning healthy so they can turn again, turn around to the new, the reborn, and say hello, hello, well met, hello. 

The cycle turns again, and Persephone lets the water rush in.

**Author's Note:**

> everything i know about greek myth is from wikipedia. only inspiration from the hades game is the inclusion of the prosymnus and nyx, haha.  
> the who's who:  
> Shiro - Persephone and Kore  
> Keith - Dionysus and Hades  
> Allura - Hecate  
> Lotor - Hades  
> Ezor - Hermes  
> Kolivan - Charon  
> Zethrid- Thanatos  
> Acxa - Nyx  
> Sanda - Demeter  
> Haggar - Zeus  
> I imagine Kinkade as Heracles. Offscreen is Hunk as Apollo and Zarkon as Hera. 
> 
> So this oddball adaptation is based off a couple things. One is really working off tellings of the Hades & Persephone myth as an allegory of coming of age, which is a tack some feminist tellings have done with Demeter as a helicopter parent, and then mapping that onto the Kore > Persephone transition as a parallel to the whole maiden-mother-crone triple goddess thing. In Greek myth that seems to actually be a thing, just mapped onto Kore-Persephone-Hecate. My brain went balls to the wall and decided to evolve this to "Persephone does Ragnarok". This was also because it seemed like as a spring/vegetation deity, Persephone was more a personification like Thanatos, and not a major force until she became queen of the Underworld. 
> 
> From a mythic POV I also came across an interpretation by Margaret Rigoglioso - she proposes that in myth Persephone is basically used as a parthenogenic agent that allows Zeus to duplicate himself. Dionysus, Hades, and Zeus are all seen as different aspects to a single god, Zeus representing the birth, Hades the death, and Dionysus the resurrection. In some traditions or tellings, Dionysus is actually also mapped onto Zagreus, the son of Hades and Persephone, or is the son of Zeus and Persephone or Zeus and Demeter and it's all very awkward and confusing and kind of icky. The fic though, does maintain the origin story of where Dionysus is first born of the gods, then abducted, ripped apart and eaten by the Titans as a baby, but because his heart or essence is saved, is reborn to Semele and Zeus' thigh. yeah. ANYWAY I wanted to try and play with some of these symbolic elements of god aspects and such. SIMILARLY Hermes and Thanatos both play the role of a psychopomp, and Thanatos is theorized to be the psychopomp aspect of Hermes that was eventually made distinct, hence their relationship here.
> 
> For the ritual stuff I basically leaned on [this book](https://books.openedition.org/pulg/490) entirely. The thysia is a ritual where you basically sacrifice an animal, then burn the fat and entrails as tribute to the gods, and you eat the rest. Eschara is this stove/hearth like thing you cook in, it's a v general term. The bothros is exclusively for contacting the dead and is technically a necromancy ritual i think. The most famous version is the one Odysseus does in the Nekyia.
> 
> There's some more extras and info in [this Twitter thread](https://twitter.com/odoridango/status/1317347423014940672). Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
